


If I Can't Have You, I'll Write of You

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Character's name spelled as Yuuri, Comedy, Humor, M/M, Pining, Profanity, Sarcasm, Slow Burn, Smoking, Writer!Viktor, lots of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 19:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A wild civility he held in his breath. Suited. Tied. Talking with guests who deem themselves important. Deem themselves fashionable. Suited. Tied. He dances around these interlopers, touching their hands and shoulders. Bestowing upon their cheeks light kisses and their ears soft laughter. To one, then another. A bewitching dancer, surely, but Viktor only wished his host would dance closer to him so that he, too, could receive a gentle touch and fleeting kiss. He wished the dancer would step on his toes and spill wine on his shirt so that he, even for a second, could glimpse into his eyes and pretend that his beloved was noticing him. There’s a glint in his eyes. A lick of mischief. A wild civility which everyone could so plainly see. He wished he was the only one to notice it. Then, maybe, he wouldn’t be at his host’s wedding. Maybe, then, his host would be marrying him! And, yet, that glint flutters around, from guest to guest, and, then, finally, to the bride.





	If I Can't Have You, I'll Write of You

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm writing this as I struggle to continue Act 2 of my "A Visitor" series. Hopefully this will help?

It’s easy to allow the world to swallow you. At first, of course, you notice it. It’s uncomfortable, different, dark. But, by the end of the whole thing, once it has fully consumed you, and the only thing you’ve left behind is empty space, it’s just another fucking Tuesday.

“Goddammit. It’s another fucking Tuesday,” Emil shouted, before slamming his head gracefully onto his desk.

“Oh?” Viktor chuckled, leaning a little out of his oversized leather chair to peer over to his coworker’s typewriter.

“Yeah. It’s Tuesday and I’m two – geddit – two seconds away from hurling myself into Yakov’s office and asking him about his ex-wife.” Emil slid from his identical chair to the cold wood floor under his desk.

“He’d kill you if you did that,” Viktor said, leaning even further. He could make out a few words from here…

“Yeah, hopefully. That’s the point. I’d be like _Oi, Yakov, someone told me you were married once_ and he’d be like _Off with your head!_ Then I’d say-“ Viktor guessed that Emil had now oriented himself in such a position that his stomach was pressed against the hardwood floor and his face buried firmly into his suit jacket. In other words, his voice suddenly became unrecognizably muffled.

On the other hand, though, away from the suppressed sobs, Viktor finally got a good peak at the word vomit Emil had left behind before he descended into Desk Hell.

"Emil, this really isn’t that bad.”

“Yore rong.” Viktor rose from his desk and replaced Emil in his chair.

“No, really. Here, let’s take a look together, no?” Viktor coddled. He reached down and jerked the jacket from Emil’s face and threw it as far as he could across the office. It landed with a soft _puff_ several feet away, almost knocking over a nice-looking floor lamp. Death slowly creeped into Emil’s eyes.

"It’s your choice, Viktor. In fact, I dare you to read that. I fucking _dare you_.”

“There’s no such thing as bad poetry, Emil. You’re a writer. This is just writer’s block. I’ll help you edit it, yeah? That’s what being a staff mentor and editor is all about.”

“Read it. Aloud.” So Viktor tore the sheet from the typewriter and did just that.

After he finished the last paragraph, he stood, silently, and shuffled over to the nice-looking floor lamp. Emil, still tucked away under his green, distressed oak desk, laid still as he really did give a good go at attempting to dissociate so hard that he would forget everything about himself and then peruse an unlikely career as something that made money then would write a really compelling novella about amnesia or some absolute fucking _bull-shit_ like _finding yourself_ and then earn money from _that_ …

Viktor took the coat and shuffled back to Emil (who was trying to convince himself that he didn’t even fucking speak any English or at the _very least_ was illiterate), raised it to his face, gave a really good scream, then tossed it on Emil’s lifeless body before exiting the building and taking the first train home at eleven in the morning. 

* * *

 

“A hollow desert / Born from my fears and / Yet removed from them / Grown from the seed of / Failed courage but bows / To no master. God / Alone can punish me / For loving the desert.” The crowd offered polite applause. Viktor closed his notebook tenderly, stepping away and allowing the professor to take his place at the podium.

“Thank you, Mr. Nikiforov. And now there is time for our visitors attending to share their thoughts and questions.” The professor side-stepped to make room for Viktor, another step choreographed into their little podium dance.

Someone stands.

“Mr. Nikiforov, I was wondering how you manage to add a surprise in every piece you publish. Surely, sir, that writing must become exhausting. How do you stay true to yourself when the whole world is watching and, uh, has expectations of you?” The man sat again and became another face in the crowd. Viktor searched for him again but couldn’t find him among the other students.

“Well, you have to do the opposite of what people expect. That’s my motto, I’d say. Everyone, all of you, are far more ordinary and mediocre than you may think. Self-awareness is key. You must find a way to control your own image. If I hadn’t been aware of my image, I wouldn’t be Viktor Nikiforov, I would just be another old, balding, lovesick poet.”

Another man stood, “Excuse me, Mr. Nikiforov. Why would you say you’re lovesick? Do you think strong emotions such as these improve your poetry?” Viktor chuckled.

“Emotions help, surely they must, but as a writer, you must be able to find new strength on your own. That’s what I’ve always believed, anyways. Raw emotions are a tool in the toolbox, but you must approach every piece like a new beginning.”

And then the questions continued until Viktor was glancing at his wrist watch and, then, apologetically, at the professor.

“Everyone, let’s thank Mr. Nikiforov for vising the university today.” And they gave him a kind hand and he smiled and nodded in return.

And he was out of the building and onto the street when one of the attendees approached him from behind.

“Mr. Nikiforov,” he spoke softly and looked Viktor in the eye. He had pretty eyes and dark hair, and Viktor thought him to be disgustingly cute. “I just wanted to ask you another quick question about your work.” Viktor adjusted the satchel strap on his shoulder and agreed. He could spare a few minutes for the sake of publicity.

“Mr. Nikiforov, what does the future hold in store for you?” He tilted his head a little bit and waited attentively for his answer. Oh. What a boring question. It wasn’t a special or new. He had been asked many times before by reporters and other writers (“And what’s next for you, Viktor?), and he’s always given the same answer (“Well, my publisher certainly has a few ideas!”).

“As a writer?” He asked after a breath.

“Or as a person.” Oh, fuck.

“And who’s asking?”

“I’m Yuuri. I graduated a year or two ago,” _comment vague!_ “but the professor is a good friend of my family and invited me to your lecture.”

“Oh?”

“You could say I’m a fan,” Yuuri shrugged and his eyes moved upwards. Viktor chuckled. Should he pursue this? He usually attempted to avoid such interactions with fans, but Yuuri was cute, and, surely, nothing too serious could come of a little flirting.

“Well, Yuuri, I don’t know what the future holds in store for me, but I think I want it to involve you.”

“Mr. Nikiforov!” He giggled. Viktor smiled.

“No, please,” he reached to touch Yuuri’s arm and traced his fingers towards his fingers, “call me Viktor.” He brought Yuuri’s fingers to his lips and kissed them. His chest tightened.

That was the first time he met Yuuri Katsuki. That was the first time he ever had a crush.

* * *

 

“Viktor!” Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit.

“Quick! Hide!” Emil whispered harshly. They both looked around frantically.

“Desks?”

“No. I’m too tall.”

"Behind the file cabinets.”

“Too wide.”

“Uh,” Emil looked around again, then something caught his eye. Viktor looked to see what it was, then he, too understood.

From his office, Yakov heard loud footsteps. Then, silence.

The office is never silent. He rose from his desk and opened the door.

“Emil. Where is Viktor?” Everyone, including Emil, appeared to be engrossed in their work. How strange.

“I’m not sure,” he said.

"Try again.”

“He went home sick.”

“No.”

“He’s in the bathroom.”

“Again.”

“He left his jacket at the university.”

“Nope.”

“His father caught a horribly bad case of whooping cough.”

“His late father?”

“A horribly bad case.”

He retired to his office with a sigh. Why hasn’t _he_ retired?


End file.
